


object

by sirenseven



Series: props [13]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bad Person Bruce Wayne, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Incest, Jason Todd Has Issues, M/M, Sexual Content, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29895165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenseven/pseuds/sirenseven
Summary: Jason doesn’t know what’s gone wrong, but he’s damn well going to fix it.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake/Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake/Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne
Series: props [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728181
Comments: 38
Kudos: 75





	object

Tim stiffens when Jason grips his shoulder, head whipping around, but he doesn’t fight. “Where’s—?”

“Shut up,” Jason says.

Tim does.

 _He’s_ the one who should get the “good soldier” epitaph, Jason thinks derisively, frogmarching him down the hall. You don’t have to be the world’s greatest detective to know Tim hates being alone with him, but a few days with Jason deputized to tie him up, and the kid’s already accepted it. Anything for _Bruce_ —even if Bruce has a habit of showing up late.

–

Jason doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong.

Tim’s head rests on his lap, now Jason is done with his mouth. His eyes are squeezed tight enough to be intentional, mouth open little enough to be involuntary. Jason can feel the puff of breath against his bare thigh with every sound Bruce fucks out of the kid at the other end. It’s all as it has been, except it’s—taking too long.

Jason props up on his elbows, dried sweat making his shirt stick uncomfortably. He’s far enough out from his orgasm that his heart should have returned to its resting rate, but the tension is keeps it up. At the end of the bed, Bruce’s chest shines with exertion, eyes blown dark, as he keeps thrusting with even staccato. For all Jason’s mockery, he’s not really _that_ old. Jason has seen just how well Bruce’s endurance can last—and just how quick his resolve breaks with the right carrot dangled. Jason isn’t setting this shit up for himself. Bruce should be losing it in the fucking throes by now. But he took so fucking long to get hard, and now _this_...

When Jason was a kid and started to feel Bruce’s attention slip, got worried he might be tossed back onto the streets, he always knew how to lean on Bruce’s possessive streak. A bitter comment during the day about the men whose wallets kept him fed before a billionaire took over, and he could be sure Bruce would endeavor to overshadow their memory that night. Or at night, Bruce fucking him like it had almost gotten rote, a slip of, “hey you want to try something new? I did this thing with a john once...” Didn’t matter if it was true. In hindsight, Jason is sure Bruce knew he was making shit up half the time. But it kept him safe. Or felt like it did, until it occurred to him years later that he knew far too many secrets for Bruce to ever throw him back anyway.

Jason can feel Bruce’s drifting like that now. Maybe not this exact moment, admiring his hand prints on Tim’s ass; maybe not anything he can put name to, but he can feel it.

Johns of childhood past aren’t gonna fix it this time. He’s not sure Bruce even thinks of him as the same person as that tiny kid—and Jason doesn’t _want_ him to; he’s _not_ that kid. But it certainly leaves him in the fucking lurch here. Not like he’s seen any johns as an adult, unless you count putting bullets in the heads of some pedophiles he used to know.

Tim was supposed to fill that space. No more need for Jason to relive unpleasant moments, packaged into sexy anecdotes, when he can throw _Tim_ at Bruce instead. But it’s not—

No. No, it _is_ working. He can see that in the way Bruce’s fingers dig into that spanked skin, the subtle grin at Tim’s moans in response, how little Bruce has been able to peel his eyes away. He likes this little punishment farce, however much a vanilla school-boy fantasy spanking is. It _is_ working. He’s just...

Slipping. Like a horrible death march has begun. And Tim leaves on Friday again, two days from now.

Jason doesn’t realize he’s twisting Tim’s hair between his fingers until Bruce finishes and flops down beside them. He hastily frees his hand and nudges the kid off his leg. Tim goes without complaint, curling away from them on the mattress. This is his best state: too tired to be irritating, not so fucked up he draws attention; just a pleasant presence to buffer the sharp edges between the two men.

Bruce catches his breath to the other side. Jason pretends to stretch out his feet as if he too is still recovering. Bruce lays in line with Tim, extra height makes his feet dangle off the edge of the bed. He has wrinkled clothes and lopsidedly rolled-up sleeves and mussed hair and—and not a lot of people get to see him like that. The unpolished intimacy. Jason sees, even if Bruce’s eyes are serenely closed, not seeing back.

It’s an awful minute of silence, caught between two people perfectly content to be quiet and alone, and pretending like he’s one of them.

He waits intently for the moment Bruce’s eyes finally slide open. They shift to Tim, still tied up but turned on his side; then to Jason, who doesn’t think to look away in time, raises his eyebrows instead. Bruce gives a lazy smile, the kind of ease and contentment he only shows here, and for that second all is well.

Then he takes a deep breath, and rolls his neck, and his eyes leave Jason’s face.

When he straightens up, Jason can see the inevitable parting. He’s sure Bruce intends the kiss as a quick goodbye, their version of a peck on lips in the morning, “I’ll see you after work, honey!” Jason grabs his hair to deepen it anyway, hunting down Bruce’s tongue, biting just shy of pain, telling himself it’s just to be contrary.

The red of Bruce’s lips when they part is some consolation. Bruce thumbs over Jason’s mouth, and Jason knows he’s thinking the same thing. Nobody else gets him. Nobody else knows him like that. Nobody else had ever bothered to care about Jason like that. He clenches fists in the sheets so he won’t grab onto Bruce instead.

“We should split up before your brother comes looking,” Bruce murmurs, and pulls away.

Infuriatingly, he looks to Tim immediately after, and Jason is annoyed to know he may well have been talking to both of them with that fucking “brother” comment. Jason can’t technically argue his relation to Dick, especially now Bruce has gone and actually adopted the asshole, but he’ll be damned if little rich boy Tim with the living dad is in any way his brother. Jason can pander to a kink; Bruce just better not get too fucking comfortable with this.

Bruce is leaning over Tim, brushing up his curved back with a blatantly intentional, “accidental” stroke over his red ass. Tim hisses, person again instead of prop. Bruce slides his fingers through the come leaking out and lifts the hand to Tim’s turned-away mouth. Jason watches with little interest; this isn’t Bruce winding himself up for another round; just his idle curiosity.

When Tim is done, Bruce pulls his hand back and drops a kiss against the boy’s temple.

“You’re forgiven,” he whispers. Tim nods, not looking at him. Bruce sits up.

He stops in the bathroom, sink briefly running, gets dressed, puts himself together, while Jason is still stewing on the bed. It feels like the briefest moment where Bruce is going, paused at the door to look back on them—and then he’s gone.

Jason huffs.

Cool. Great. So now he’s on setup _and_ cleanup. He feels like an underappreciated stage manager, organizing a whole performance just so Bruce can come have his fun, not even acknowledge it properly, and then ditch as soon as the curtain closes. Or maybe he’s just a fucking maid. Call Jason crazy, but he thinks Bruce should take care of his _own_ toys.

Tim is coming back to himself, realizing he’s been left alone with Jason again if the way he starts tugging at his bindings is any indication, so _fine_. Fine.

Jason rolls to the bedside table, guessing correctly that Bruce will have something sharp in every nearby drawer. Tim has flipped onto his back by the time he returns, working one of his wrists free. Jason has to admit, the way his eyes go wide when he sees Jason flick open the pen knife is pretty funny.

“Don’t—” Tim goes very still as the pointy end approaches his wrists and ankles, all bound together. The way he’s turned and twisted has put the knot right by his dick and Jason snorts at the kid’s complete failure to actually help himself.

Jason could untie it; these things are meant to be reused. But fuck Bruce and fuck his stuff too. He slides the knife in right beside Tim’s wrist, and deftly slices through the knot. The rope falls into pieces.

Tim doesn’t relax until he’s pulled away. As soon as Jason is no longer looming over him, he tugs the scraps of rope off and scrambles to his feet.

Jason snorts, wiggling the knife. “What, did you think I was going to shove it up your ass?”

Tim’s eyes dart between his face and the blade as he hastily regathers his clothes. Jesus, his ass is red. Jason is almost impressed by the complete lack of wincing, even when Tim pulls on his briefs and jeans.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Tim says, only after his bottom half is covered.

Jason raises his eyebrows, makes a suggestive gesture with the blade between his fingers. Tim yanks his shirt over his head and bolts from the room.

Pussy. Rolling his eyes, Jason drops the knife and climbs off the bed. He, unlike Tim, is not desperate enough to throw on his dirty old clothes just so he can get out. And he, unlike Bruce, is not so stupid overcautious about someone wondering where he is. Jason steals more of Bruce’s sweats and stacks them up beside the billionaire’s shower. If anyone asks why he’s wearing Bruce’s clothes instead of his own (unsure now if he regrets bringing a bag, goddammit) or why he’s using Bruce’s shower instead of the one in his guest room...that sounds like a them problem.

Jason glances back at the bedroom before closing the bathroom door. Ruined ropes scattered on the bed, open pen knife laying in the comforter. He didn’t even bother closing the dresser drawers. It’s absolute pettiness, but leaving _some_ mess for Bruce to deal with himself is still satisfying.

–

“Strip,” Jason says, going for the toy box as soon as he’s finished manhandling Tim inside.

“You can stop ordering me around,” Tim grumbles, and Jason stops short at the closet, gritting his teeth. He turns to find Tim scowling right back. “I know the drill, okay? And I don’t—”

Jason is across the room in four long strides, boxing Tim against the wall. His face must give away how _not in the fucking mood_ he is for this, because Tim cuts off immediately. Confronted with Jason’s looming bulk, his eyes drop, throat bobbing.

After a moment of silence, Jason snaps, “Don’t what?”

Tim doesn’t answer.

“Don’t take orders from me?” Jason suggests. “Don’t have to do what I say? Don’t need me to spell it out for you?”

Tim stares at the floor. At least _someone_ in this house is wary of what Jason can do. Shoulders tense, not raising his head, Tim quietly repeats, “I know the drill.”

“Then _do_ it.” Jason shoves him into the wall and stalks back over to the closet.

–

Jason drags out the shower in a languid waste of hot water before finally leaving Bruce’s bedroom. The hall carries no sounds of life, and he pauses for a moment, stumped.

The thing is—Jason doesn’t have a lot to _do_ in the manor.

He eats, sleeps, keeps himself in top form. Takes advantage of the Cave’s absurdly extensive training facilities and has nabbed a few of the more interesting tools and toys. And he fucks. And prepares for fucking, mostly prepares _Tim_ for fucking, and cleans up after fucking, and dwells on new ways he and Bruce can fuck.

Last week, Dick was eating up plenty of time too. Always in the way. Always in Jason’s _space_. His unsubtle overtures came constantly, circling right around the topic (while Jason feigned cluelessness), or suggesting they do some brotherly activity together (which Jason always refused), like some fucking bonding would get Jay to confess. Trying to be the goddamn brother of the year, as if that prospect hadn’t been buried alongside Jason.

And he guesses Dick must have realized that too, because there’s no more stupid offers to hang out. Which is _great_ , actually. Jason doesn’t want his shitty act of caring anyway. Not having Dick bothering him all the time is just one annoyance gone.

Though, yeah, it _has_ left him with a lot of dead time to fill. There’s only so much working out a body can take, and Jason can’t imitate Bruce’s constant focus on cases either. He pretty much dropped his gang takeover after that shitty confrontation where Bruce refused to kill the Joker, where Jason almost died in an explosion again. The whole drug lord thing was a means to an end anyway, and after that _end_ Jason couldn’t muster up the energy to keep running it. He’s still interested in clearing the filth off Gotham’s streets, but not so much the maintenance of trying to personally run the most unstable underworld on the East Coast.

In an effort to avoid Bruce tracing it back to him, Jason left the red helmet behind this weekend while he cleaned up the latest mob shitbags he’d been scoping out—something he _refuses_ to think of as making himself available for the week.

He now has exactly zero criminals to keep track of and zero crimes to control. Seemed like such a good idea at the time, ensuring he’d avoid an inevitable fight with Mr. “All Killing Is Wrong.” Feels more like a mistake now that he has nothing to do, even if debates over murder would surely fuck things up more than Jason’s boredom can.

So. He spends time with Alfred, who is easy to be around unlike anyone else in this fucking place, but he can’t and won’t follow the man around like a lost duckling. He bothers Bruce into entertaining him, but that’s best done in small increments because god knows Bruce is _not_ the amiable conversationalist Alfred is. He tries to remember what the fuck he used to do for fun, because Jason has come to the unpleasant realization that he’s had very little of it since crawling out of the grave.

Some of it is untenable now—not like he can try out for the school baseball team again—and most of the rest no longer holds appeal. Reading is pretty much what he’s come up with. When he runs out the chances to bother people, Jason’s been doing a lot of fucking reading.

He isn’t going to look desperate and hunt down Bruce immediately, so reading it is. He even does it alone in his room—by which he means the guest room Alfred had set up for him, before Jason even needed to say a word about not sleeping in the room that dead kid used to use. He’s an independent adult. He doesn’t need to be kept company.

Except he’s fucking bored, and he can’t pay attention to whatever goddamn moral crisis the whiny not-a-doctor Frankenstein is going through for the dozenth time, especially when the monster— _the creature_ , not dubbed a monster until adaptations—is the only interesting part of the book anyway. If it were anyone but Alfred who suggested he try out the classics, Jason would be crafting mental insults for the unfortunate recommender by now.

He fails to read the same page three times before finally giving up. Fuck it; it’s been long enough. He can go on a totally purposeless perusal of the manor. And if he _happens_ to run into anyone, pure coincidence.

So Jason goes wandering, absolutely no goal in mind whatsoever, and promptly discovers Bruce isn’t back in his room, nor in the study, nor in the library. Alfred isn’t in the kitchen, but Alfred mentioned Wednesday laundry, so that’s not surprising.

It fucking figures that the two people Jason _does_ find are the ones he didn’t want to.

Dick and Tim are cuddled up in the media room, squished together on the couch despite the ample room beside them. From what Jason can see over the back, it looks like Dick has _both_ arms encircling Tim. Fuckin’ excessive. It’s like Tim is his overgrown stuffed animal. Tim is pressed about as tight against Dick as a person can be without taking their clothes off.

It’s so goddamn domestic that Jason’s first instinct is that they’re fucking, and his second is a genuine moment of contrition for sexualizing it. (Of course they’re not fucking. Dickie’s too goddamn _pure_.)

Tim has a giant sweatshirt on, Dick restlessly twirling one of its strings between his fingers. Jason can’t even tell what they’re watching—there’s a fucking _ad_ on TV, like Bruce doesn’t have a million ad-free channels. They’re not even talking. Just quiet. Cozy.

He has snide commentary on the tip of his tongue. Wondering why Tim isn’t uniformed and ready for patrol, maybe, or why the fuck Dick hasn’t gone home yet, is still fucking _here_ , sucking up everything Jason wants, everything Dick already fucking _left_ and _threw away_.

Tim leans his head into Dick’s shoulder, and Dick tucks his chin over it.

Jason leaves before they can turn around.

–

“What if he’s with Dick?” Tim asks.

Jason’s knuckles go white around the restraints he’s pulled out, slamming the toy box shut with his other hand. “Then he’ll come up with a brilliant excuse to get away.”

Tim is clearly trying to be quiet and careful, but he’s dancing on Jason’s last nerve. At least he’s finally naked. “He doesn’t want Dick to find out—”

“Newsflash, kid,” Jason snaps, whirling on him. Tim has perched himself on the middle of the bed and seems to regret it now that Jason is suddenly standing. “Maybe you noticed, but Dick stopped fucking _protecting_ you a week ago.”

Cross-legged and hunched over, Tim looks tiny on the superking mattress.

“He gave up on you! He’s not fucking here to run interference for you anymore! If he was actually trying to help you, don’t you think _maybe_ you wouldn’t have gotten fucked every day this week?”

Tim doesn’t respond, clenching his hands in the duvet.

Jason trembles at the foot of the bed. “He doesn’t fucking _care_ about you.”

–

Tim eats breakfast standing up on Thursday morning. For all the act of health, his ass must be aching.

It’s French toast and fresh fruit today. Alfred is still going all out on breakfast, has been since Jason came back. It was his favorite meal when he used to live here. Every indication that Alfred remembers that makes something in his chest warm. Jason eats at the kitchen island, enjoying the flavors and considering how exactly to organize a fuck that won’t permanently damage the kid. Bruce would probably get upset about that, and it’s not like Jason is trying to _kill_ Tim.

...Anymore.

So maybe no deliberate pain, at least for the night. At least for his _ass_. Jason’s already pushed the size angle. Bruce got his whole fucking fist in there. They’ve had fun with restraints too. The only other things that come to mind from Bruce’s wishlist are youth and familial relation, and Jason doesn’t know what to do about those. Trying a whole role-play just sounds awkward. He probably couldn’t get the kid to follow a fucking script anyway. He still hasn’t figured out how to make Tim put up the _fight_ Bruce is so enamored by; Jason just keeps pushing at his limits and hoping it’ll turn out.

Jason is only distracted from today’s little puzzle when he catches sight of Bruce’s face. He’s wearing the usual morning exhaustion—but also a little smile every time he glances up at Tim. At Tim _standing,_ while they use the bar stools. Jason feels a smile pull at his own face in response when Bruce glances conspiratorially aside.

Tim leaves for the Titans tomorrow. Thirty-six hours. He can work with that.

–

Tim holds stock-still, eyes down in fearful submission. Jason clenches his fists and silently talks himself down.

His knees sink into the mattress as he climbs over, ropes clenched in hand. Tim shifts to the headboard when Jason gestures, though he still refuses to look up.

“Just give me your hand,” Jason says, and starts the tying.

–

“I’m bored,” Jason says, hopping onto Bruce’s desk in the midafternoon. (Thirty hours left, give or take. No Tim this time of day.) He plants a foot on the corner of Bruce’s chair, leans back, uncaring of whatever work is going on.

Bruce exhales, half chuckle, half sigh. “I thought you were reading. New library not to your taste?”

“Victor Frankenstein is a whiny bitch,” Jason mutters. The library remodels are fine. More shelves with plenty of new books, cozy seating in between.

Dead quiet and empty.

“You know you can pick a new book,” Bruce says, tapping a few more keys on his laptop, but an affectionate smirk pulls at his mouth. Good, because Jason isn’t planning to leave. “Or we have plenty of movies, television, games...” He glances up with a wry lift of the eyebrows. “Arts and crafts? You don’t have to continue with Dr. Frankenstein.”

“Mr. Frankenstein,” Jason mutters. “He’s still in undergrad. And fuck you; I’m gonna finish it. You didn’t raise a quitter. I’m just—” Jason lifts his foot to poke Bruce in the thigh, “—bored of reading.”

“Well,” Bruce sighs, sitting back from the computer, “Alfred will be done with his dusting soon...Tim will come home from school...” _There’s_ that innuendo.

Jason’s eyes narrow. “And _Dick_?”

“Coming over for dinner tomorrow,” Bruce admits.

“Again?” For fuck’s sake.

“It’s best to go along with whatever do-diligence he thinks he’s doing,” Bruce says. “He has to feel he’s investigated enough to put the suspicion to bed.”

“And when exactly will that be,” Jason grumbles, more complaint than question.

Bruce pats his leg. And then, like the bastard he is, looks back at his computer.

“Anything new?” Jason asks, indicating the screen.

Bruce shrugs slightly. “Tim’s father is extending his trip through the weekend.”

Right. And that would be exciting news, if Tim weren’t going to San Francisco all weekend anyway. “Late notice,” Jason says, just for something to say.

“It’s a pattern with him.” Bruce frowns. Jason bets he could compose a whole essay on Mr. Drake’s failings as a father on the spot, and the thesis would be, “therefore you should give your son to me.”

He waits for Bruce to offer any more information about what his stalking has conjured up this week—hell, he’ll even take more information about the fucking Drake family—but Bruce gives him nothing. Really swell and lasting conversation they got there.

Jason huffs and leans back on his hands, glancing out the window. It looks like a beautiful, sunny day outside, but it’s an illusion; the weather is frigid cold out there. Much nicer in here, sunlight welcomed in but chilly air blocked out. Bright sunlight from the windows hits his free leg every time it swings up, before it ducks back into the shadow under the hollow of the desk.

“Remember when I used to fit under here?” Jason says, leaning forward to see the space better. It seems like hardly any room should be left with Bruce’s legs tucked under. Jeez, he used to be small. He can’t remember his zombie phase well enough to know if it was the Pit or just genetics, but fuck is he glad for the post-resurrection growth spurts.

The typing stops. Bruce rubs his leg, the one propped on his chair. His gaze slides up it, hips, waist, ribs, up to Jason’s face.

“Jason,” he says, “do you need me to tell you you’re pretty?”

“Alright, fuck off.” Jason takes his leg back.

“Hey—” He’s stopped from standing by a grip on his calf. “You are pretty.” Bruce’s head lowers to rest gently on his thigh, and his face when he looks up is startlingly soft. “Handsome. Clever. Creative.”

Jason lifts his hand slowly, almost not sure he’s allowed. Bruce doesn’t stop him from brushing through his hair. Jason has never had cause to compare the man to a fair maiden in a classic painting, but he sees it for a moment, Bruce’s head pillowed on his thick thigh, Jason strong and upright.

Bruce’s fingers pull up just the hem of Jason’s shirt. The weight lifts from his thigh as Bruce leans forward, and presses the softest kiss to the side of his waist.

When he retreats with no push for anything more carnal, it’s as disorienting as it is fitting.

Bruce examines him carefully, hand retreating to Jason’s knee. “Do you want to help me with a case?”

“A case?” Jason repeats, caught off guard.

He leans forward to peer at the screen, just in time to see Bruce closing a number of windows in the background. Jason narrows his eyes, but Bruce makes no mention of it, opening a new window to path into the batcomputer. A case. He’s actually serious.

Jason hasn’t helped Bruce with a _case_ since—well, Robin. And the closest thing to “cases” he’s worked the past few years almost always end with a body bag. Or ten. Bruce actually _inviting_ him to help after that... Maybe sex is the most vulnerable part of Bruce’s life, but Batman is the most important.

“Yeah,” says Jason. “I could give you a hand.”

Bruce squeezes his leg. “Pull up a chair.”

–

Jason yanks Tim’s legs apart once he’s done with the arms, earning a predictable flinch. The kid is all tensed up as Jason lashes one ankle to the bottom corner of the bed with a length of rope. God, this fucking mattress is unreasonably large. It’s a good thing Bruce has rope to spare—not even counting the miles he must have down in the Cave—or Jason would have run out after one limb.

He pulls the other ankle wide to the adjacent corner. Tim doesn’t resist really, but he’s not helpful either, dead weight and staring at the ceiling. That’s fine. He’s basically an inanimate object here anyway.

Both ankles done, Jason looks over the tableau with a discerning eye, trying to see it from a new arrival’s perspective. Naked kid, dark comforter. Wrists tied to the headboard, ankles to the bed feet. Jason smooths out the comforter beneath Tim’s torso. Unlike Jason, the kid _is_ short enough to fit under that desk and Jason can’t have him vanishing into the duvet too. It’s a good scene, simple but effective, and he doesn’t want an inch of it hidden.

–

Alfred is only allowed in the Cave during patrol, so he usually takes this time to clean. Bruce and Tim are busy saving the city from poison in the water supply or whatever the fuck it is tonight. Dick, for once, has managed to stay in his own goddamn city all day.

There’s no one around to see Jason slip into Bruce’s study.

He puts a hand on that antique desk, the one he used to fit under, takes a seat in the big chair that used to seat both of them, looks at the laptop far more advanced than anything he used to have.

Last time Jason sat in front of it, Bruce talked Tim off over the phone while he mouthed suggestions. Their own little secret. Tittering together in silence at the same time Bruce made grand claims to Tim about privacy. It was funny, and all that after Bruce shared his secrets, the spying and tracking and watching, opened up to Jason for just a glimmer of time.

Jason doubts he could hack anything Bruce has, but he doesn’t have to. He watched Bruce type the password. Lifting a thumbprint from the mouse for dual authentication is just as easy.

Bruce isn’t _trusting_ ; Jason just doesn’t know if he’s sloppy or arrogant. If he forgot, in a moment of unabashed fun, that Jason can be observant too—or if he believed that Jason would never dare go around him. Except for all the ways in which it’s the only thing that matters, the answer doesn’t really matter. Bruce made the mistake either way.

The phones ping exactly where Jason would expect them: two in the Manor, one in Blüdhaven. The messages aren’t much more interesting. Dick took a rain check on getting drinks with his coworkers tomorrow night. Tim had a real riveting discussion with what Jason assumes is a classmate about science homework, as well as easy acceptance of the text from his dad announcing his extended trip. (Obedient little pushover.) Jason’s shitty burner, of course, hasn’t gotten any messages except for what Bruce sent him.

He briefly considers pulling his phone details off of Bruce’s invasive spy shit, but it’s not like that would last. And Jason planned to dump the phone anyway. Besides, it would seriously undercut all his efforts to leave no trace.

Less than twenty-four hours before Tim bails for the Titans. There’s got to be something here. What would Bruce be hiding?

Jason looks at his phone records, listed out on the screen. The pictures. Bruce sent Jason pictures, which means Bruce took pictures, which means Bruce _takes_ pictures. That he’d have to hide from Jason, maybe not, but it’s the only think of he can think to go on. It’s all buried in layers of disguise probably, but for once that makes Bruce a cliché. He’s just a guy hiding porn on his computer. And because Bruce only uses the best, it’s probably protected by the same security that defends the batcomputer. The exact security Jason is most familiar with.

He doesn’t find pictures, but he does find videos.

 _He’s got the whole place bugged_ , Jason thinks, and then he clicks through and corrects himself. Having the whole place bugged would be less creepy. Bruce has a very _limited_ selection of the place bugged. Not one camera in his own bedroom, nor bathroom, nor this study. Tim’s suite, on the other hand, has enough to trip over. Overhead, low angle, under the bed, on the window—it’s a miracle there’s any space left. There are hours upon hours of video just capturing the inside of his _closet_.

A folder for the room and dozens of videos labeled with dates and cameras inside. In hindsight, it’s exactly how Jason would expect Bruce to store his porn. Fucking categorized.

He can’t find any favorites system, no starred videos. There’s a tagging system, but none of the tags are sexual. Only some videos have them and mostly for the people that appear— _Alfred_ , when the older man comes into Tim’s room, or _Jack_ , when Tim is on the phone with his father.

Is this really just platonic stalking? Can’t be. The night with all three of them in Tim’s room is recorded right there, unedited and porn-tastic. So...

On a sudden burst of inspiration, Jason adds a column for number of times viewed, and immediately gets his answer. Most of the videos have been viewed once, maybe twice. A few, largely those tagged with _Jack_ or _Dick_ or whoever _Dana_ and _Stephanie_ are, have views up in the seven-to-ten range.

And then there’s an even smaller selection, all untagged, with dozens.

Jason clicks on one, labeled for about a month ago. He watches a top-down view of the darkened bedroom, until telltale stifled breaths and moans crackle through the speakers, bedspread shifting slightly from beneath. Little Timmy taking care of littler Timmy. Jason makes a retching sound and returns to the top folder.

There are maybe a dozen subfolders in total, a dozen rooms. Tim’s bedroom and bathroom at the top. Two other bedrooms besides, and neither of them are Alfred’s. Jason stares at the folder labeled _JPT_Bd_ for a long, long time.

He clicks Dick’s instead.

The videos are being culled. He noticed it before, but it’s even more obvious in Dick’s folder, with how little the room is used. All the videos include someone in the room. Those staring at empty space are probably automatically deleted, or never recorded in the first place. Judging by the lack of pruning for the most recent videos, everything else must be manually done, and Bruce clearly doesn’t get around to it every day. Everything older than the past few days—than, Jason assumes, the last time Bruce sorted through—has been cleaned out

Mostly cleaned out, he should say. _Curated_. Tim’s folder still had a few with tags saved, presumably the most interesting conversations, but the rest of the older videos—and every single video left in Dick’s folder—have those telling high view counts. Jason spots a file dated ten years ago _(Viewed: 476 times),_ swallows, and backs out of the folder.

What is he doing? What’s the point of this? He’s not here to snoop through Bruce’s porn; he already knows what the man is into, and if he didn’t he could ask. He’s here for—for _something_ , but he doesn’t even know what he’s looking for. Whatever Bruce didn’t want him to see.

With no hints and even less direction, all he has is the hope of stumbling upon it through Bruce’s eyes in the sky, because no other ideas are striking.

(There isn’t a folder for Jason’s new guest room. When he plucks up the courage to click on _JPT_ , the last video is years old. Jason re-scans the top folder list, but no. Nothing from his recent stay. Bruce...probably just hasn’t gotten around to it. Maybe Jason is too clever for him, too good at picking out bugs. Bruce is being careful. It’s a practical decision.

He hates this. He hates not knowing which bothers him more: the folder he does have, or the folder he doesn’t.)

So. Tim, Jason, Dick; each suite. The media room and the coziest living room. Nothing for the uncomfortable sitting rooms, the closed-off guest wing, Alfred’s realm in the kitchen, or the dining room where Bruce presides over meals personally. It’s just the favored rooms for relaxing, all the places Bruce’s darling Robin might go to unwind. Plus—

Huh. There’s an extra bathroom. Jason scrolls up to make sure he hasn’t missed the bedroom it’s associated with, but no. It’s just a bathroom. Brow furrowed, he opens it.

It’s easily the emptiest folder yet. Four videos, all from this week. Set up recently?

He clicks the first. It’s the blue bathroom from the ground floor. One of those rooms that isn’t far enough out of the way for Alfred to keep it shut, but isn’t close enough to be regularly used. It’s nearish the study, but on the far side from the dining room or stairs, only really convenient if you’re on the way to or from the back door.

With that in mind, it’s unsurprising to find Alfred in the first video. Jason stops it before he has to watch his pseudo-grandfather do his business, and moves to the second.

Alfred again. Fuck.

Jason glances at the clock and jolts at the time. He’s lost himself in the investigation. There should still be hours before patrol ends, but the minutes slipping past make him nervous nonetheless. What if Bruce comes back early? What if Alfred decides to dust the study while he’s away? What if Jason is completely wasting time? If Bruce _is_ hiding something on the computer, it could be anywhere. He could have deleted it. Shit, Jason could be making this whole fucking thing up in his head. Maybe Bruce is just in a slump; it happens. Maybe it’s seasonal fucking depression. Who knows?

It’s a stupid bathroom. Those saved videos in Tim’s room, the ones where he’s talking to someone—those are a better bet. Bruce had a reason to keep those beyond horniness.

There are only two videos left in the folder, though. And something about...Bruce set up this camera recently. That itch in the back of his mind, the one that, ironically, Bruce himself always told Jason to foster, keeps telling him that’s notable.

Jason looks at the clock again.

No one should be home yet. Alfred should be busy. If this whole thing is a waste of time anyway, he may as well try it all.

It’s only two videos.

Bruce is the subject of the third video, which does make him feel a little better. He still skips ahead in bursts until Bruce is washing his hands at the sink. The man pauses for a moment when he’s done, examining the room. His eyes are sharp as he shifts a decorative basket on the counter further into the corner, like it’s a critical piece of a mission instead of useless aesthetics. A look over the full length mirror, the slightest nod to himself, and Bruce leaves. After two minutes of darkness, the video ends.

Useless. Jason huffs, slouching in the chair. This is such a waste of time.

One video left. Sunk cost fallacy. Twenty hours before Tim leaves, and Jason just wants to know what Bruce’s stupid fetish is about the bathroom. (God, he hopes Bruce doesn’t have a bathroom fetish. Jason does not want to have to pander to that.) He clicks.

Video number four shows Bruce and Dick entering the bathroom together. The back of Jason’s neck prickles.

He double checks the video timestamp—yesterday. Last night, just after dinner. Then this is...Bruce’s distraction? What, did he lock Dick in the bathroom so he could fuck his youngest Boy Wonder in peace? Not exactly the most subtle move. Not very _Bruce_.

Dick’s face is tight, strained. Bruce is as closed-off as ever. The two men fold themselves inside briskly, close and lock the door, all that practiced teamwork Jason used to worry he could never live up to.

Jason’s hands go cold, but his eyes are glued to the screen.

For the first time, instead of a mere observer of Bruce’s voyeurism, he feels like the voyeur himself. Like he’s not just watching on a screen, but personally hanging in the corner of the ceiling, spying from on high as—as nothing. Because this is nothing. This is _not_ what it looks like. It’s not. He knows it.

It’s not what it looks like when Bruce unzips Dick’s hoodie, not what it looks like when he leans forward and Dick ducks his head away. Dick could be shaking for any number of reasons. He could be unhelpful for any number of reasons, letting Bruce peel off his shirt while offering no assistance. Maybe he’s injured. Maybe they needed to examine a wound under the bathroom’s bright lighting. Maybe _Bruce_ injured him. That would be fun, Bruce doing it. Something passed off as accidental, something that would keep Dick off their backs the rest of the night. A distraction. A _distraction_.

Jason has the volume all the way down, but he can see Bruce murmur something to Dick, rubbing a hand up his bare side. Dick stays tight-lipped, as Bruce continues speaking. It’s impossible to read his lips from this angle. Jason’s mouse hovers over the volume control.

He doesn’t unmute.

Bruce takes the pants too. Socks. Boxers. Dick shivers, naked in the closed room. The locked room. The out-of-the-way room, that none of them use, that Bruce touched up the day before, that Bruce put a camera in just a week ago. He turns Dick around. Faces him at the mirror. Presses Dick’s back to his chest. Pulls Dick’s arms away when he tries to wrap them around himself, still shivering.

It’s really not that cold in the manor.

Jason loses his last vestiges of denial when Bruce slides a hand down, down Dick’s chest, and curls it around his cock.

With every teasing stroke, Bruce watches Dick intently in the mirror. Dick isn’t even _bothering_ to return the gaze, but there Bruce is, still looking at him anyway. Not past him, to the younger, cuter, newer kid in the room. _At_ him. Watching him. Seeing _him_ —

Jason shoves away from the desk a split-second before he snaps and breaks something. He’s panting like a man mid-fight, seething with it. He squeezes the arms of the chair tight enough to hear them creak. The clock ticks loudly in the corner. The video keeps playing undaunted on the monitor. Jason shoots his head around, suddenly realizing how little he’s been paying attention, how easily someone could have snuck up on him. The whole fucking cast could have burst in here without him noticing.

They haven’t. The study remains silent and empty; the others remain unaware of Jason’s presence.

He’s alone.

On screen, Dick latches onto Bruce’s arm.

–

Once he’s shoved the gag in Tim’s mouth, Jason freezes, abruptly clenched in the grip of inexorable anger. His hand has landed on Tim’s thigh, gripping tight enough to turn the knuckles white, tight enough to indent crescent fingernail marks. Tim keeps silent through it. It’s not like he could fight anyway.

He’s helpless. He’s tied down. He walked _himself_ in here, the obedient little show dog, and he laid down on the bed where he gets fucked, and he stayed still while Jason tied him up with ropes a fucking child could escape, and he didn’t make a _single_ move to get out. He wanted it. And it’s too late now. It’s too late. Even if Tim is quick, by the time he slipped his bonds, Jason would have time to do—

Anything.

Break a bone. Break ten bones. Get a good grip around his throat and _squeeze_ until the brat stops thrashing. Just snap his neck. Make it instant. See how misaligned he can get that spine.

It’s so _funny_ , isn’t it, that even Tim doesn’t expect that anymore. Even the kid who’s afraid of Jason still thinks he’s tame. Little Timmy’s gotten so fucking comfortable, hasn’t he. All he expects now is the sex. The _attention_. Probably expects everyone to fall at his _feet_ , thinks he’s the belle of the ball, assumes the worst Jason will do is some sexy little BDSM.

As if Jason is even into him. As if this _does_ it for him, this stupid—this stupid _kid_. As if Tim has ever, _ever_ mattered to him, as more than a _thing_ that _Bruce_ cares about.

Jason looks down at the kid and feels...nothing. Even the rage in his body isn’t for _Tim_ , let alone any fucking kind of attraction. There’s absolutely no reaction from his body. No temptation to slide his hand three inches inward, nor to gaze at whatever fucking merits Bruce thinks the kid has, nor to even get off. The only things that pull his attention are the breakability of Tim’s fingers and the vulnerability of his throat.

(It makes his stomach twist up under his ribcage, just a little bit, that he doesn’t actually _feel_ any of it, just pantomimes it out. But it’s never been Tim for him. It’s never been Tim. Jason could take or leave the kid. It’s just Bruce.

Bruce needs him. He does. Needs him to open this whole world of possibilities, can’t do it on his own. But it’s _not_ just him for Bruce.)

_–_

Jason slithers over him, pulls the duvet away in the same moment, puts his weight on Bruce’s thighs. Bruce startles for an instant, that realization he’s not alone in bed any longer, shirt hem already sliding up with Jason’s dancing fingers. The silky cloth skates over his knuckles, warm skin under the tips, hair parted against his fingernails.

Bruce inhales, about to speak, and Jason claps a hand over his mouth. Holds it. One second. Two.

It’s that early pink light before the sun’s fully risen, soft and pastel. It’s been ages since he saw a sunrise. This time doesn’t even exist for them. A made-up hour; dead silence and them and Bruce’s exhales brushing across his hand.

Jason removes it, replaces it with his lips. His weight shifts, sinks, until they’re pressed together all the way down. He doesn’t give Bruce a moment to speak, but Bruce is alright like that, without the words. He can give Jason this, kissing back, and grinding back, and holding his neck so softly. He’s never unwilling to give _this_. And when he’s not trying to speak anymore, Jason lets his head tilt, lets Bruce kiss his neck instead like he’s always enjoyed.

Jason’s hand slips into his dad’s pants, and he _earns_ his attention. Bruce’s hands caress down his son’s back, and it’s all okay, until they come to rest on his ass.

Jay freezes, tension sucking back in, hand pressing off Bruce’s chest.

Bruce doesn’t push it, but he doesn’t move his hands away either. Steady from face to foot, and says, “What do you _want_ , Jason?”

It’s not a sultry offer. It’s piercing insight, and not even the sleep-hoarse rumble can dampen the effect. What does he want: to be watched, or not? To crawl inside Bruce’s skin, or to get out of this house? To fuck, or to not be fucked?

(Jason was twelve and no man had ever put up with him this long without trying to beat him or fuck him, but Bruce kept saying he was safe here, he was wanted here, he didn’t have to turn his old tricks here. And Jason so _desperately_ wanted to believe him, wanted to feel that, _safe_ , but he could never let anything be without proving it. But he wanted; he _wanted_.

So he waited in Bruce’s room and he made the moves he’d made a hundred times before, and he hoped Bruce would prove him wrong. And, _boys don’t cry_ , fine, but the idea that someone might really want him, not for _that_ , not to turn tricks, but to be safe and warm and _wanted_ , made him want to cry in a good way.

He didn’t. Cry.)

He wants this. He does. And he can’t—he can’t do _that_ again, can’t let Bruce have him like that, can’t give up the power he’s clawed for, but he does want this, he does, he _does_. This is where he’s wanted, so this is what he wants. This is what wanting feels like. This is it; this is _it_ for him.

So he doesn’t throw off Bruce’s hands, but he doesn’t let them move inward either. Jason shifts down, lets them fall off naturally, and gets his mouth around Bruce, and makes him say the nice things like _perfect_ and _god_ and _so good, Jay_ instead. When he’s done, he lets Bruce roll him onto his back, that careful in between where Bruce hovers over him but doesn’t try anything else, and Bruce returns the favor like he never used to, and it’s okay.

Jason clutches his hair tight enough to hurt, latches onto the one hand Bruce leaves within reach. This is what he wants.

(And it’s only part of what Bruce wants. It’s not just Jason for him. And Jason can open up that world of possibilities or he can push it away. Accept or reject, stay or leave, facilitate or destroy, and Tim leaves in fifteen hours—)

Ten hours, and Jason is hunched over a breakfast Bruce won’t be attending. He’s busy at the goddamn Watchtower, saving the world or someone’s family or whatever the fuck it is this time. Jason stabs at his egg casserole, and brushes it off to Alfred as morning grumpiness, and barely even takes notice of Tim scarfing his food down as quickly as possible before leaving for school.

Ten hours, and not even really that long, because Tim is only useful when he’s _home_ , and Bruce isn’t even _here_. Jason would think he’d bother to _be_ here, would think this would be more important than _anything_ , but Bruce left with a kiss and a rushed goodbye and an insistence he didn’t want to leave, like everything he says isn’t a fucking _lie—_

Jason smashes the bathroom (six hours left). He puts on his gloves and boots to do it, wants the immediacy of throw his fist straight into the full-length mirror, trampling the shards into dust under his feet. The basket cracks against the wall. The towels tear, strips strewn everywhere. The mirror over the sink he smashes too, and the sink itself, and the lid of the toilet, and the seat, and the stupid decorative tiles on the walls. The marble counter is hard to dent, but he gives a fucking go at that too.

It’s not like it _matters_. Bruce is still _busy_ , and even if he weren’t, he doesn’t watch videos of Jason anymore. He doesn’t care about what _Jason_ does. And he doesn’t have any clandestine hookups with his beloved eldest planned for this bathroom today. Fuck, he’s probably already bugged Dick’s apartment to jack off to, doesn’t even need to look at the manor. Maybe he won’t even fucking _notice_.

Tim comes back after school and promptly vanishes into one of the sitting rooms. Jason ignores him, waiting for someone more important, but Bruce returns barely before dinner, two hours left, and Dick slips in even more last minute, and it’s the whole fucking _family_ gathered around the table.

“How’s Stephanie?” Dick asks, and Bruce nods along at Tim’s answer like he gives a shit about some girl, and casually asks Dick to pass the chicken like they’re not _fucking_ , those goddamn lying fucking _assholes_.

Jason did everything. Jason did _everything_ ; Jason gave him his stupid little fetish fantasies, did _everything_ short of implanting a tracker in his neck and letting Bruce _fuck_ him. And he—he did his time, he did _all_ of it, when he was Robin. That’s what you do, you pay your dues, and Jason _did—_ And Dick Grayson. Dick fucking Grayson. _Dick_ just got all the good parts. Dick got to be Robin, and live in the nice house, and get everything he ever wanted, and all of the _Dick picked up this move in a week_ , _Dick could run this course in two minutes_ , _Dick was so much better than you_ , and he didn’t even have to _do it_. Jason paid his dues, and Tim’s paying them now, and Dick never had to pay _anything._

And Bruce wants him anyway. Bruce wants _him_ , and not—

No, no, he wants Dick, but he doesn’t _only_ want Dick. He’s greedy; he’s possessive; he’s a spoiled little rich boy who wants everything, but that means he—he wants _them_. All of them. And the way he wants Dick—it’s _less_. Not the amount, but the _way_ , because the way he wants Dick is an _object_. Tim too; Tim and Dick, his tools, his toys, his little props to position for the fantasy. He wants them like objects, but he likes Jason—he likes Jason like a person. He wants Jason like a person. He does; Jason knows it. He has to.

Because he started it. He started it this time, not Jason. Jason made the snide little comment, “not gonna get on your knees for me like you do him?” just to needle, but Bruce—Bruce decided to make it real. Bruce made it an order, and Tim got on his knees, and _they_ started this—and Bruce _picked_ Jason. Bruce picked this.

And Bruce is going to go and ruin it, thoughtlessly, greedily, spoiled little rich kid, because he couldn’t stop himself. Because Dick fucking Grayson had to be there, perfect and alluring and stealing Bruce’s attention. He’s the problem. He’s the only thing that doesn’t _fit_.

–

Bruce pulled him out of the explosion.

He wouldn’t kill for Jason, but this time Jason wasn’t alone to burn, waiting for someone who wouldn’t come. Bruce threw himself over top, wrapped the cape, shielded Jason’s body with his own, and just this once, his dad _came_.

“Get _off me!_ ” Jason screamed anyway, didn’t want his fake concern, didn’t want the act of rescue from someone who didn’t even care enough to avenge him. “ _Get OFF_.”

He fought the grip, thrashed every way, tried like a hundred killers before him to escape the Batman.

“Stop _pretending_ ,” Jason sobbed. He’d been crying since he asked. Since he asked Bruce for the proof that he’d always known, deep down, would never come. “Some pretending you care about me—”

“I do,” the voice around him said, the liar, didn’t care, never cared, would rather hurt _Jason_ than his murderer.

“You _don’t_ ; you never did, you fucking _liar—_ ”

“I _do_.” He’d expected the growl of Batman. There was a certain firmness that voice could take that no mere mortal could reach. But what he got was—Bruce. Bruce, still deep and strong, but cracked and hurt and...human. “I do, Jason; I do. I do love you.”

It was quiet, muffled in his hair, thick with emotion. Just for him. He was surrounded in Batman’s armor, but it was his dad’s arms that held him.

Jason wasn’t as small as he used to be. He was strong enough to break a grapple, fast enough to escape a vigilante, smart enough to go to ground and reconsider his next steps, now that he knew he’d failed, now that he knew Dad would never avenge him for anything.

But.

Bruce loved him.

–

“Can I see you for a second?” Jason says, leaning in the doorway of the den.

He gets a furrowed brow in response, but when he strides back down the hallway, there is another pair of footsteps following. Good. Jason doesn’t have the patience for an argument here. His pulse thrums.

“Is everything alright?”

Jason doesn’t pause or turn around to answer, just nods and keeps moving. “Just wanna talk to you for a second.”

He barely constrains himself to a believably casual pace, making quick work down the hall, hyper-focused on his destination with just a thread of spare attention to ensure he’s still being followed.

“Boys?” It’s Bruce, interrupting from the study in a politely questioning tone. Jason is already too far past the door to look at him, but he doesn’t double back. Behind him, Dick falters for a moment, and has to redouble his gait to catch up again.

Jason takes the stairs two at a time, hears Dick following suit right after him. Guess he is still eager to talk to Jason.

“Jason.” Bruce has followed them, a hint of warning in his voice this time. Jason spares the briefest glance back to mark Bruce at the base of the stairs, before he crests the top and swiftly turns off into the hall. Bruce makes no effort to silence his footsteps as he follows them up.

Dick is lighter on his feet, half-jogging to reach Jason and fall in step. He hasn’t paused to talk to Bruce, or reassure him, or refused to follow Jason as he waits for Bruce’s orders instead. And that’s...funny, right? Dick picking Jason.

“What is this about?” Dick asks, looking over his shoulder with a worried crease in his brow. He may not know the context, but he can pick up on tension. Dick speeds up alongside Jason without protest.

“Just up here,” Jason says instead of answering, heart roaring in his ears.

Bruce turns the last corner, spots them ahead. He’s close now, no longer feigning disinterest. It would take two seconds to cross the distance and yank Jason back.

Two seconds he doesn’t have. Jason throws the door open.

The snarling monster in him finally quiets at the sight of Dick going pale. Behind him, Bruce catches up, and his expression turns just as wan when he gets a look inside—despite certain claims Jason may or may not have made about his involvement. Jason slides subtly aside to give the pair an unobstructed view through the doorway.

Tim Drake stares back, naked and tied to the bed.

Jason gives Bruce a winning smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m alive! And excited to share this! Thanks for hanging in there, guys <3 [tumblr](https://writerseven.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Next time: fallout, and a choice to make for everyone


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